Chapter Text
Larrikin had tried to set up a bet for how long it would take for the guys to show up after the Hotel appeared in Ireland, but nothing came of it, as they both agreed that their ex-squadmates would most likely already be waiting for them. They had tried to ask the cats, but they didn’t seem to have much of an opinion on the matter. It was starting to seem like they might have been wrong, though –several seconds had already passed, yet there was still no sign-
Just then the door burst open.
“What the hell,” Dexter began, catching his breath, “does this mean?” In his hand he held what Anton presumed to be the fax.
“Since when were you planning on having kids?” Saracen added. “Why would you keep that from us?”
Oh, how Anton had missed them.
Ghastly and Skulduggery came in after them, followed by Hopeless and Erskine.
“Now, now, let’s calm down a bit, boys,” Ghastly sighed, patting Dexter and Saracen on their backs. “I’m sure Anton has a logical explanation for all of this.”
Anton opened his mouth to answer, but stopped himself. He could tell them it had been a misunderstanding, or he could keep this going for a little bit longer if he tried. It wouldn’t even be lying, really, not if he chose his words carefully. He wanted Larrikin to be there to see their reactions. It had been their idea, after all.
“No explanation, I’m afraid,” he said, careful to keep his face blank and voice monotone as he walked over to greet his friends.
Even Hopeless looked convinced. “You mean- you mean that you’ve actually got children now? You're actually parents?”
Anton hummed, trying his hardest to not let his amusement show. "I assume you'd like to meet the little ones?"
The Dead Men looked at each other, bewildered, and then back at Anton, but followed him out of the lobby regardless.
Anton led them up the stairs to the third floor, where he and Larrikin resided. Their apartment was slightly tucked away, right next to the 24th room. It was bigger than the guest rooms, and it smelled different than the rest of the hotel. More cozy and warm, somewhat reminiscent of baked apples. Anton wasn’t quite sure why, but he was grateful for it: he’d come to associate the scent with home and safety, and as he opened the door he found himself relaxing ever so slightly. He took off his shoes and walked ahead to the living room, where Larrikin was waiting. He looked up at Anton and grinned. Anton found himself struggling to keep a straight face.
"Behold," Larrikin said, gesturing theatrically at the cat and kittens curled up next to them on the sofa, "our darling baby and her darling babies!"
The Dead Men crowded around the sofa. The mother cat eyed them with suspicion but made no effort to move.
"Those are cats," Hopeless stated.
"We never specified they were human children," Anton replied, unable to stop himself from smiling as the room erupted.
"You sly old fox!" Erskine laughed, punching him lightly in the arm, "Larrikin, you're a bad influence!"
"Hey, he was like that before I got to him, I simply helped him reach his full potential. Right, darling?" Larrikin said, batting his eyelashes.
“It’s true, if you can believe it,” Saracen said before Anton could confirm or deny the statement. “He lied to me about the scissor fairy just to mess with me.”
“It worked, didn’t it? You never ran with scissors again.”
“I had nightmares for weeks!”
“Would you have listened to me if I had simply told you not to do it?”
Saracen opened his mouth, but soon closed it again. Of course he wouldn’t have, children never did.
He sat down next to Larrikin, gesturing for the rest of the Dead Men to take their seats as well.
“The reason why we invited you here is that we still need to name them,” Anton announced, “and we thought it would be nice to hear your input.”
Skulduggery tilted his head. “You’re trusting us with naming your cats?”. That certainly couldn’t be a good sign. Still, he nodded in approval.
“Should we start with the mother?” Hopeless asked.
“What about Calico?” Erskine suggested.
Dexter whipped his head around to face him. “You can’t name a calico cat Calico! That’s like naming a person Person!”
“What can you name Calico then, if not a calico cat?” Erskine retorted.
“A person, probably,” Saracen said.
Erskine scoffed. “Do you have a better idea?”
Dexter and Saracen looked at each other and turned around from the others, speaking in hushed voices. Anton had a sinking feeling that whatever they came up with would be either the best or worst idea ever.
“We think she should be called Dolly,” Dexter said after a moment, “she is a classy and beautiful lady fitting of such a name.”
“And it would also be a reference to Hello Dolly,” Skulduggery added.
“And Dolly Parton!” Ghastly said.
“That’s settled then,” Larrikin said, scratching the mother cat’s chin, “you shall be known as Dolly.” Dolly closed her eyes and began to purr. It seemed that she didn’t mind the name. It was already going so much better than Anton had thought.
“We should name the gray kitten Lead Paint Gunk,” Skulduggery said. Anton was fairly sure that it was his fault for jinxing it.
“I would like to call into attention that it has black spots as well,” he said, hoping that it would deter Skulduggery from naming their child after poisonous substances.
“You’re right!” Saracen said, “it looks a bit like blue cheese.”
“Oh I know!” Erskine said, “we should name it after some type of blue cheese.”
Hopeless lifted their head from where they had rested it on Erskine’s shoulder. “That would imply that the cat is mouldy.”
“But it’s good mold, not bad mold.”
“How about Roquefort?” Saracen asked, “then we could call it Rocky for short.”
“That’s… not how you pronounce Roquefort,” Anton replied.
Saracen squinted at him. “What are you, french?” Anton didn’t quite know how to respond to being accused of frenchmanship. He’d spent so much time learning the language, yet here Saracen was, accusing him of having it as his first language.
“You come to my house, on the day of my cats’ christening, and you accuse me of being french?” Skulduggery nodded at the reference, but the rest of them just stared at him. It wasn’t Anton’s fault the rest of them hadn’t bothered to read the Godfather. He’d have to drag them all to see the film adaptation when it came out.
There were still two cats left, the ginger tabby and the little calico. He made the decision to pick up the calico kitten, who had been meowing very enthusiastically since their guests had arrived.
“I actually have an idea for a name for her,” Larrikin said, much to Anton’s surprise. Before he could ask any further questions, Larrikin continued sheepishly. “Back in Denmark, a week after everything that happened at Hammershus, we went to that bakery that sold little wienerbrød. Do you remember that?”
“Of course,” Anton responded. It felt almost like it had been yesterday, although it had been well over a hundred years by now.
“I know we didn’t give a name to it at that point, but I always thought of that as sort of our first date. Now, I know naming her Wienerbrød would be an invitation for way too many jokes,” they said, squinting at the rest of the Dead Men as they snickered at the word ‘wienerbrød’. “But they’re called small danishes in english. I think that would be a cute name.”
“It would,” Anton responded, taking Larrikin’s hand in his, unable to ignore the feeling of warmth spreading in his chest. He thought to glance over at Skulduggery: Usually the mention of the corpse attack upset him, although he didn’t really show it. It didn’t seem like that was a problem now, though, as he was too busy miming a gagging motion, an action which earned him an elbow to the ribs from Ghastly.
“Isn’t that just sweet?” Saracen asked, grinning, “In fact, I’m getting cavities as we speak. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
“You don’t even have a lawyer,” Hopeless said.
“You don’t know that. Maybe I do.”
“He definitely doesn’t have a lawyer,” Dexter said.
“Oh, the humanity! How could you not believe me? I’m calling my lawyer right now and getting a divorce.”
“Nobody’s getting divorced,” Ghastly said, interrupting Saracen’s theatrics, “at least not until these cats have names.”
The ginger tabby was the last one left unnamed, currently preoccupied with biting Dolly’s tail.
“What about Brandy for the last one?” Hopeless suggested. “It’s stylish and gender-neutral.”
“You were just saying that my name implied mold. Yours implies yeast and alcohol,” Erskine said. Now his head was rested on Hopeless’s shoulder.
“Be that as it may, it’s a good name and fits the cat’s fur color.”
“I’m going to have to agree,” Anton said. The name had a little bit of edge, just like the cat in question, and Brandy was indeed a distinct vibrant orange reminiscent of the beverage.
“And so they are named,” Larrikin announced, “Dolly, Roquefort, Small Danish and Brandy.”
“Great work lads,” Ghastly sighed, “we’ve named the cats after alcohol, women and cheese.”
“And Denmark!” Dexter chimed in.
“And Denmark.” Ghastly pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to appear exasperated. “Is this what you wanted?” he asked, looking up at Anton and Larrikin.
Larrikin glanced at Anton, and nodded. “Indeed it is.”
“They’re very nice names,” Anton continued. “And we got to spend time together as a group again.”
There were nods of agreement from the Dead Men, before someone suggested the idea of board games. The rest of the evening was spent talking and playing until the very last minute before the Dead Men had to leave, unless they wanted to come to Iceland with the Hotel. Hugs were shared, new gatherings were scheduled, and finally Anton and Larrikin were once again alone with the cats.
Larrikin curled up against Anton and yawned. “You’re so warm,” they said, “I’m going to fall asleep right here.”
“You sure you don’t want to go sleep in our bed? Our bed, made specifically for sleeping?”
“Nope,” Larrikin said, cracking one eye open and smiling. “Think of it as an adventure.”
Anton chuckled. “Sleeping on the couch is an adventure, is it now?”
Larrikin responded only by pulling him down. Before Anton could move, the cats crawled up onto his stomach. It seemed that he was outnumbered, and leaving the couch would mean disturbing them. Therefore he resigned to his fate of sleeping on the couch, in his work clothes. It really wasn’t that bad, not even remotely comparable to most of the sleeping arrangements on the field.
“Goodnight, I love you,” Larrikin mumbled, before burying his face in Anton’s shirt.
“Goodnight, I love you too,” Anton responded, despite being pretty sure that Larrikin had passed out on the spot. He himself could only stay awake for a little while longer, listening to the gentle purring of the cats, before sleep caught him as well.